


Conversations With A Dead Detective

by MizJoely



Series: Conversations [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Mild Angst, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 14:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1431910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach AU (see author's notes) - a conversation in six parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Conversation One: John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> My second ever posted Sherlock story, and my first multi-chap fic, originally posted on ff.net and pretty darn AU at this point since it is pre-season 3, but it was fun to write and I hope it's still fun to read.

“Hello, John.”

John Watson, war vet, steady-nerved doctor, yelped and fell back against the kitchen table where he’d just dropped a Tesco’s bag full of groceries, hand automatically reaching for a weapon that wasn’t resting in a holster on his hip or tucked into his waistband but was instead safely ensconced in a gun safe up in his loft bedroom one floor up.

The flat was dark; he hadn’t bothered turning on the lights when he entered, too busy going over his schedule for the night. That quiet voice in the darkness was unexpected, but he responded to it automatically before his mind caught up with what his ears had already recognized: “Christ, Sherlock, you could warn a bloke!”

He froze for a second time as he realized what he’d just said…and to whom he’d just spoken. “Sherlock?” he asked in a near whisper, hands groping for support against the sturdy wooden kitchen table as his knees suddenly decided to go all wobbly on him. He didn’t believe in ghosts…did he?

His eyes automatically found his former – dead! – flatmate’s favorite chair and noted the silent, shadowy figure occupying it. He sensed movement, then blinked as the lamp on the side table came on, revealing that yes, the voice he’d heard had been that of his supposedly dead friend, Sherlock Holmes.

A very solid, very real, very un-ghostlike Sherlock Holmes.

He was sitting there, legs crossed, chin resting on one hand, the other returning to his lap after snapping on the light. The same dark, tousled hair. The same calm face, although there were signs of strain and weariness, lines around his mouth and eyes that hadn’t been there three years ago. And the clothes, they were certainly different; he’d never seen Sherlock wearing jeans, black trainers and a black t-shirt beneath a worn black leather motorcycle jacket before…

“Christ!” he swore again as his mind finally stopped trying to delay the inevitable by cataloging the physical similarities and differences in his friend’s face and body.

A hint of a smile lightened Sherlock’s features. “You’re repeating yourself, John,” he chastised.

“And you’re not bloody dead!” John shouted as his frazzled nerves finally settled on a reaction to the stunning sight and sound of his friend – the man he’d loved like a brother, still did, damn him, and had mourned for two. Bloody. YEARS.

Anger. In five quick strides he was standing over the seated figure, fists clenched by his sides as he gazed down at Sherlock. “I watched you jump,” he growled. “Why aren’t you dead?”

Sherlock maintained his infuriating air of calm as he raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer that I was?”

John wasn’t even aware of the desire to punch the bloody calm out of Sherlock’s voice until he’d already landed the blow, rocking the other man (the DEAD man!) back in his chair and forcing a grunt of pain out of him.

Sherlock’s only other reaction was to stand up, forcing John back, reaching out and grabbing the other man’s fist in an iron grip as it was abundantly clear to both of them at this point that he had no intention at stopping with just one punch. “You get one, John, because I deserve it,” Sherlock said, his voice quiet as he held his friend’s gaze with his cold blue eyes. “But only one. And I do hope you don’t intend to offer the same greeting to Dr. Hooper when you see her later.”

The apparent non sequitur served as a splash of cold water; John blinked, stepped back, blinked again and allowed his cocked fist to drop to his side as he tried to process what he’d just heard. “Doctor…Hooper?” he finally repeated, eyebrows creasing in a frown. “You mean Molly? Molly Hooper? Why would I…oh, bloody Christ,” he groaned, slapping a hand to his forehead as the penny finally dropped. “She helped you. She knew you were alive.”

Sherlock nodded, continuing to study John as carefully as he’d ever examined a crime scene. Whatever he saw in his friend’s face – or heard in his voice – seemed to satisfy him; after a moment, he gave a sharp nod and returned to his chair, indicating the one opposite in an unmistakable gesture.

John responded by plopping into the comfortable armchair with a heavy sigh. This day had started off with a great deal of promise, and now he felt as if it had simultaneously worsened and improved. Part of him was giddy with relief ( _He’s alive! I knew he couldn’t bloody well be dead!_ ) while the rest of him was still groping to understand why it had taken three years for Sherlock to show himself. It wasn’t his reputation; that had been restored fully, his dying (supposedly dying) words to John refuted over and over again as the truth about Jim Moriarty/Richard Brook came out. 

The media that had first acclaimed Sherlock Holmes, then lambasted him as a fraud, had found themselves once again backpedaling as information was doled out in dribs and drabs. Not all at once, not in the first few months after Sherlock’s (supposed) suicide, but here and there: the discovery of the true kidnapper of the Bruhl kids; a body found in Belgravia in the middle of a drug lab; a criminal network unearthed in Sweden, another in Spain; all clues leading inexorably to the truth now known to the world. Sherlock Holmes had been framed, not Rich Brook. 

Rich Brook had been a fabrication of the late ( _Or was he? If Sherlock was alive, what about him?_ ) Jim Moriarty. His background had been easily discovered once Mycroft Holmes (John always assumed it was Mycroft, although he’d never had the nerve to ask) had started digging into the false data strewn about the internet. Reporters had started asking the right questions for once, and a paper trail, something that could have been fabricated almost as easily as a digital one by someone as brilliant and twisted as Moriarty, had never been found.

Questions had been asked, sources had been located, and an exposé by the Times had proven, once and for all, that Sherlock Holmes – as John and his other friends had always believed, never stopped believing in spite of the circumstantial evidence so carefully presented to them – was not a fraud.

And now, he was also not dead. He shook his head in continued disbelief, in spite of the evidence of his eyes and ears and not inconsequentially, aching, bleeding knuckles. He opened his mouth to ask the million questions that had filled his stunned mind.

oOo

Sherlock watched as all of this flashed through John’s mind, reading every thought from the expression on his face, the slight movements of his body, the flickering of his eyes, as easily as if the other man ( _your_ friend, _remember he’s your friend, not just one of the millions of anonymous faces that have surrounded you these past two years_ ) were enunciating them aloud. Therefore he was prepared, simply waiting for the moment when John’s mind finally started functioning well enough to ask the flood of questions his presence – alive and in their flat – had undoubtedly raised. “Don’t ask how we did it, because, distasteful as the process was, I wish to keep such knowledge private in the unlikely event it should be required in the future.”

John’s mouth slowly closed as Sherlock continued, his voice clipped and contained but answering, he hoped, every question his friend might have. “I was forced into those actions by allowing myself to be outmaneuvered,” he couldn’t stop his lip from curling into an angry snarl, “by Moriarty. He had snipers with weapons trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and DI Lestrade; if I didn’t jump, you were all going to be killed.”

He allowed a moment for that truth to distill itself through John’s mind, waiting until his friend’s eyes widened in realization before speaking again. Really, he shouldn’t be enjoying this moment so much, but he’d held this information inside himself for so long, sharing it only with Molly in his infrequent communications with her (Mycroft, of course, already knew everything, had known from the start, wasn’t the least bit surprised when his supposedly dead brother showed up on his doorstep yesterday and announced his presence), that he couldn’t help indulging himself. 

“Yes, that is why I claimed to be the fraud Moriarty wanted the world to believe I was. Yes, that is why I jumped and forced you to witness it.” He leaned forward and caught John’s gaze, which had slipped down to his hands. “No one in Moriarty’s network would believe I was dead unless you believed it, John,” he said softly. “If for even one second you showed any kind of knowledge or belief that I was alive, they would have been onto me – and killed you and the others in order to flush me out. That is why you weren’t allowed to know before now.”

“But why Molly?” John blurted out, obviously setting aside for later thought what had been – for Sherlock – a highly emotional confession. “She’s a terrible liar…or at least, I thought she was.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, drumming the fingers of one hand against the arm as he considered how best to respond to John’s question. “I was not,” he finally said, his words careful and precise, “taking advantage of her…feelings for me. I wish to be very clear on that matter. I was not using her.”

After a moment, John nodded. Good; acceptance of his word. Very good. He’d been…not worried, precisely, but concerned that it would take far more effort for his friend – but no longer his only friend, as he’d once proclaimed – to reach a state where he wouldn’t argue or disbelieve every statement Sherlock made. “I asked her not only because I knew she would have the technical proficiency to do so, but also because her faith in me appears to be…quite unshakable.” He didn’t bother to disguise the tone of wonder in his voice; even now, three years after the fact, he was still profoundly moved by her unquestioning belief in him, how she’d simply asked what he needed of her without requiring any further information, agreement implicit in her simple words. _What do you need?_

John was studying him closely as he fell silent. “I’m a medical doctor,” he pointed out, also not bothering to hide his feelings – in this case a combination of gratitude and resentment as easy to read in his eyes as his low voice. “I also have unshakable faith in you.”

Sherlock found himself repressing a sigh. Sentiment. It always got in the way, although in this case he found himself unable to either fully resent its presence or ignore the way it deserved to dominate the conversation he’d never expected to go calmly and unemotionally. “I know,” he replied, keeping his voice equally quiet. “However, you were already a target. Molly never was.”

He gave John a moment to digest that particular truth, unpalatable though he knew it to be, then continued speaking. “She never was because everyone – including her – believed she didn’t matter.”

Her words wouldn’t leave his mind; he’d considered deleting them more than once over the last three years, but was never able to bring himself to do so even after having proven to both of them that they weren’t true. _I don’t count._

Something of his troubled feelings – that word again! – must have translated to his face, because John leaned forward with a questioning look on his own face. “She believed she didn’t matter…but she really did? Does?” he asked.

Sherlock supposed he should be grateful that John was allowing the conversation to remain focused on Molly’s part in this entire fiasco and not, as it probably should be, on how outraged and angry John was at the deception his supposed (actual) best friend had put over on him. Or that he wasn’t berating him at the top of his lungs ( _good thing for both of them that Mrs. Hudson was visiting her sister in Leeds; he would have to be sure to ease his way back into her life, her heart was sound but she wasn’t as young as she used to be, as she kept reminding him – almost as often as she reminded him she was his landlady, not his housekeeper, and dear me, he was rattling on inside his own head, this must be taking more of a toll on him than he’d expected_ ) or trying to punch him again.

Not that Sherlock had any intention of allowing any such thing; he’d meant what he’d said after that first punch, the one that had left a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth he hadn’t bothered to staunch. John was allowed one. Just one. No more.

When this moment, this calm before the storm, had passed, when Molly and her part in all of this ( _and why was he continuing to avoid thinking about why he’d selected her to assist him, the real reasons, the buried reasons, when that was exactly what John had asked him to explain?_ ), he held no illusions as to how John’s delayed reaction would play out.

There would be shouting. There would be punches thrown – although he knew both of them well enough to feel no superiority in the fact that none would land. There would be storming out of the flat and long, involved, behind-his-back conversations with the new woman in John’s life ( _Miss Mary Morstan, elementary school teacher, never married, no children, orphan and nurse, nothing else about her life significant enough to bother remembering even though she and John had been dating for nearly six months now_ ).

“Yes,” he finally answered the question John had posed him. Although his thoughts had raced along he knew only a few seconds had passed outside his own mind. “She does. She always has.”

And that, he hoped his clipped response and tightened lips and narrowed eyes, would tell John, was the end of that.

oOo

John leaned back in his chair and blew out a breath. Sherlock ( _Not-dead Sherlock Holmes! Holy bloody Christ!_ ) probably thought he wasn’t giving anything away with that dead-eyed stare and blank face, but just admitting that Molly Hooper, someone John had felt varying shades of pity for the entire time he’d known her but nothing more, admitting that she mattered, that she counted…that was huge. Almost as huge as when Sherlock had called he, himself, John Watson, his only friend. _I don’t have friends. I have one friend. You._

Molly Hooper was someone Sherlock counted on and trusted. Another friend. He found himself wondering if Molly understood how big that confession had been, how important. How she reacted when she discovered she mattered to the elusive object of her unrequited affections… With a jolt, John remembered that quiet little Molly Hooper, competent pathologist and stuttering mess around Sherlock, had somehow managed to fool them all. Himself, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, her coworkers, the entire fucking media including Kitty Go-For-The-Throat Riley…for two. Bloody. YEARS.

She’d attended Sherlock’s funeral, wept alongside them, comforted John during those first, difficult months before he finally gave in and went back to his therapist for professional help. She’d come round for tea with Martha Hudson every Saturday the older woman was in town, when she wasn’t away on one of her increasingly frequent stays with her sister Margaret in Leeds.

She’d dressed down Sergeant Sally Donovan in front of them all at a memorial dinner (she’d been dragged along by Lestrade for some insane reason, oh yes, his wife had been “ill”, code for not speaking to him for the nth time) for bashing the (not so) deceased detective in public, for calling him a freak and stubbornly proclaiming her belief in his guilt in spite of the mounting evidence to the contrary.

Sally Donovan had been speechless in the face of Molly Hooper’s fury, and John had been grateful – grateful! – as she blasted the other woman for speaking ill of the dead.

“You will not berate Molly for her part in this, John. Or punch her.”

He glared at Sherlock as he jumped to his feet, hands balling into fists by his sides. Damn the man for reading his mind so easily! “I don’t hit women, Sherlock,” he ground out. “I’m not some bullying bastard. I don’t put them down, humiliate them in front of others…no, that’s all on you, Sherlock. Which is why,” he added as he bee-lined for the liquor cabinet, since this discussion had been far beyond tea since Sherlock had first spoken to him from the darkness, “I don’t understand why she would be willing to help you. One apology and a quick peck on the cheek do not make up for years of abuse.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed dangerously; John had half-turned to glare at him once more as his fingers found the correct bottle. Oh, he felt some right to be angry right now, did he? Sod that! The only person in this room with any right to anger – to _righteous_ anger – was he, himself, John Fucking Watson. “Don’t act like I haven’t the right to throw that in your face, you selfish tit!” he found himself shouting as he twisted off the top to the scotch and angrily flipped it over his shoulder, uncaring where it might land. He took a healthy swig of the bracing drink, savoring the burn as it made its way over his tongue and down his throat to rest with a glow of warmth that helped soothe the churning in his gut. “You treated her like shit for years, don’t try to deny it!”

“I’m not.” Those two words, quietly spoken, did almost as much to calm John’s fraying temper as the alcohol. “You’re right, I treated her like shit. And she never once wavered in her faith in me. I treated you like shit as well, and you reacted the same. Never gave up on me.” He met John’s eyes squarely. “And I’m sorry for putting you through that. For putting both of you through that.”

Well. That was…unexpected. Still, it wasn’t going to smooth things over, make everything all better, lull him into forgiving his supposed best friend for lying to him so long and so well. Or Molly. Yes, he owed her for helping to save Sherlock’s life, but still…Molly? Lying for years to cover up for Sherlock? It didn’t seem possible.

He threw himself back into his chair with an explosive release of breath, too violent to be called a sigh, and took another drink. Sherlock surprised him by holding out his hand; reflexively he gave over the bottle, watching with raised eyebrows as Sherlock took a drink of his own, not even bothering to wipe off the neck of the bottle as he did so. Some sort of brotherly solidarity being shown, John supposed, reluctantly admitting he appreciated the gesture as he was given back the scotch.

The breath he released this time was softer, much closer to a sigh as he reached up and rubbed his eyes. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m still pissed off at the two of you, but I get why you did it. Snipers, the threat of death, a web of evil to unravel.” He waved a hand over his head dismissively. “But Christ, you could have left a hint once you got going on your one-man crusade to rid the world of evil! I mean…after your reputation started being repaired in the press, couldn’t you have, I dunno, let Molly know it was safe to tell us? This is going to kill Mrs. Hudson! Shatter her to pieces almost as badly as you ‘dying’ did!”

“Martha Hudson, as you well know, is made of far sterner stuff than you give her credit for,” Sherlock replied dryly. 

“Getting roughed up by a couple of thugs isn’t the same as losing someone you think of as the son you never had,” John retorted, allowing his tone to get a little nasty. “Yeah, she came through that like a trouper, but this is different Sherlock. You’d best not try out your ‘surprise, I’m alive!’ routine on her, that’s all I’m saying.”

“It was never my intention,” was the quiet response. “In fact, I was rather hoping you would do it for me. You and Molly together, perhaps, once you’ve calmed down enough not to tear into her for her part in this.”

It finally penetrated John’s anger how solicitous Sherlock was being of Molly’s feelings, how protective he was acting toward a woman whom he’d always treated as a necessary evil in the past. Yeah, he’d been saying she counted since her name came up in this – conversation? Confrontation? – but it hadn’t really sunk in until now how fucking important that was. 

Sherlock said he always missed something, but this time John knew he’d missed something as well, something important. Maybe even bigger than Molly Hooper being a friend and not just a convenience to Sherlock... “What happened, between the two of you?” he finally asked, wishing to God he smoked. A fag might do wonders for his nerves, give him something to do with his hands besides fidget with the bottle of scotch he was still clutching.

He leaned forward and placed the bottle carefully on the coffee table, between a stack of medical journals he was behind on reading, and allowed himself to really look at Sherlock, taking in all the details of the man’s appearance as he waited for an answer to his question.

Dark, tousled hair; check. Black t-shirt and jeans, black trainers, black leather motorcycle jacket; check. Long, pale face, signs of strain; check. Nervously tapping fingers; double check. Those twitchy movements hadn’t stopped once John had taken his second swing, he realized. Sherlock was back, yeah, not dead, but definitely still not completely at ease. He wondered if it was unfinished Moriarty business, or the way the conversation kept coming round to Molly. Bloody. Hooper. Keeper of Sherlock’s biggest secret. 

He still couldn’t quite wrap his head around it all, knew it would take almost as much time to sink in as processing Sherlock’s miraculous return from the dead. Sure, things like this happened on the soaps all the time, but this was real life. No one got over a shock like this between commercial breaks.

Sherlock finally broke the growing silence, responding to a question John was still very, very interested in hearing the answer to. “Why did anything have to happen besides me realizing I’d been, as you so poetically put it, a selfish tit?” 

He sound irritated; good. Sherlock off-balance was a treat to be savored, even under these peculiar circumstances. Even better was the element of discomfort in his voice that John had been listening carefully for, there and gone so quickly he’d have missed it otherwise as Sherlock added: “I told you, I needed someone to help me. Someone with the technical proficiency…”

“Yeah, I get it, technical proficiency, unshakable faith, not me because she wasn’t a target,” John cut in impatiently. “Got all that. That explains why you asked her to help. It doesn’t answer the question I just asked you. What happened? I know you, Sherlock; even helping you fake your death and covering it up for three years isn’t enough for you to start treating Molly like a basket of kittens! Christ, you’re more concerned about how I’ll react when I see her than you were about my reaction to seeing you!”

He was only just recognizing that fact; why else would Sherlock have just let himself into the flat and waited for however long it had been until John returned from Tesco’s? Why else sit there in the dark, knowing full well that his reaction was going to be one of shock and startlement and even a bit of fear, for that split second of believing there was an intruder in the flat? Yeah, Sherlock could be theatrical and he supposed it was hard to resist the urge to show off, but why not simply ease him into it the way he’d mentioned doing for Mrs. Hudson?

The simple explanation: because he wanted John to be unsettled and focused in his anger. To not let that anger spill over onto Molly. 

Holy Christ, was the answer to his other question that simple as well? “You care about her!” he blurted out. 

“I believe we’ve already covered that, John,” Sherlock replied, but again, there was something in his voice, a warning to let it go that John ignored completely once he’d noted its presence.

“Yeah, no, not really,” he replied. “She counts, got it, that puts her in the same category as me and Mrs. Hudson. But it’s not her _life_ you’re protecting, Sherlock. It’s her _feelings_. You don’t want me to hurt her feelings by ranting at her the way I’ve been doing to you. Not that you don’t deserve it, cos you do. But you don’t want me to hurt _her_. Do you.”

“As you pointed out earlier,” Sherlock replied, his voice even softer than it had been, “I’ve already hurt her enough for one lifetime. So yes. I would appreciate it if you would…go easy on her. Wait to see her until you’ve calmed down enough to accept that she acted in your best interests. That it hurt her as much as it hurt you to keep the truth from you.”

“Which brings me right back to my question: what happened? More specifically, what happened between the two of you? Because I still feel like her helping you isn’t all there is to this change of heart.”

Sherlock abruptly rose to his feet, towering over his friend, eyes blazing. “Whether there is or not is none of your business, John! I’ve already apologized for keeping you in the dark for so long…”

“No, you haven’t, actually,” John was quick to point out, remaining firmly planted in his own chair, refusing to be intimidated by his back-from-the-dead friend. “Not yet. Still haven’t heard those particular words cross your lips.”

He held Sherlock’s gaze stubbornly; this time, for once, he wouldn’t be the one to back down. And when Sherlock flung himself back into his chair, flicking his gaze to the side with an annoyed sigh, John counted it as a win. “Fine, if you insist. I apologize for keeping you in the dark for so long. But it was for your own safety.”

Well. That was about as close as he was going to get to a heartfelt apology, so he supposed he’d best take it. “Apology accepted,” he replied. “And yes, I promise not to rip Molly a new one when next I see her, although I don’t promise not to demand a few explanations.”

“Fair enough,” Sherlock agreed quickly. A little too quickly, perhaps; did he think that just because Molly had kept his secret for this long that she’d be able to hold out against a John Watson determined to wrest details from her now that the secret was no longer a secret? It would certainly be interesting to try. 

Tomorrow, perhaps, or the next day. Certainly not now. Right now all he wanted to do was sit and bask in the knowledge that his best friend – the best man he’d ever known, even if he was a sodding, lying not-dead git – was alive and well. “So,” he said after a moment’s silence. “Mission accomplished, is it? Moriarty’s network dismantled, the public safe to walk the streets at night?” Then, more seriously: “No guns being held to my head or anyone else’s?”

Sherlock shook his head, a there-and-gone-if-you-weren’t-looking-for-it flash of relief in his eyes as he crossed his legs and steepled his fingers in front of his face in a familiar (much missed) gesture. “All safe, else I wouldn’t be here.”

John leaned forward and plucked the bottle from the table. “So, a toast then; to wars won and soldiers returned safely from battle, eh?” He took a healthy swig and passed the bottle to Sherlock, curious to see if he would emulate the gesture.

To John’s immense satisfaction, he did, once again not bothering to wipe the lip of the bottle clean. Signifying their bond much as children would spit in their hands and clasp them together. Just as unsanitary.

Just as satisfying.

Sherlock Holmes was back, and no matter how mixed up John Watson felt about the nature of his disappearance and return, the dominant feeling was and always would be relief.

He had his best friend back.


	2. Conversation Two: Mrs. Hudson

“Hoo hoo! John, I’m back!”

Martha Hudson, just returned from visiting her sister Margaret in Leeds, tapped at the door to her tenant’s flat. He’d left her a very peculiar message, asking her to come to see him as soon as she returned, no matter how late or how early. He’d said it was important but not bad news, which certainly piqued her interest; Lord knew she could use some good news in her life right about now. Yes, it had been three years since she received the very worst news a mother could receive – not that she was Sherlock’s mother, of course she wasn’t, but he was the closest thing she had to a son, he and John both had become that close to her even if she was just their landlady…well, John’s landlady now.

She felt the tears prickling in the corners of her eyes the way they always did when she allowed herself to remember that Sherlock was dead and sternly ordered them back. It had been three years, more than time enough to get over her grief at losing her prickly, difficult, wonderful close-as-a-son tenant and friend; she really needed to do as her sister kept urging her and stop dwelling on the unhappy past, star living in the present and remember to appreciate the blessings she still had in her life – like Margaret and her husband and three grown daughters and their children who loved when their Aunt Martha came to visit.

And John Watson, who was calling to her to come in. She pushed the door open, sniffing back those silly, inconvenient tears, stuffing the equally silly, inconvenient emotions to the back of her mind and carefully putting a smile on her face, knowing that its false stiffness would melt away as soon as she saw John’s dear, familiar face.

He’d managed to find a way to smile in the past year, taking up with that lovely schoolteacher of his, Mary Morstan. She had high hopes of getting at least one grand-tenant out of that pair ( _Really, John needed to stop dawdling and ask her to marry him or at least move in!_ ) before too much more time had passed. After all, they weren’t none of them getting any younger…

As her thoughts pottered along, her body had gone through the familiar motions: pushing open the door the rest of the way, not bothering to shut it behind her; her feet carried her to the sitting room; her eyes took in John’s dear form as he rose to greet her; and her mouth curved into a genuine smile as she reached out and allowed him to clasp her hands and kiss her cheek. “Mrs. Hudson, thanks for coming so quickly. I hope you didn’t cut your trip short because of me – ”

“Don’t be silly, I just saw Margie last month,” she interrupted him with a small laugh. “I’m sure she’s getting sick of me coming round so much.” Untrue, but untruths told in good causes didn’t count. “Besides, how could I not come when you promise me good news?” Her breath caught as it finally dawned on her what the good news could be – and how could she not have known, when she’d just been thinking about Mary Morstan and her relationship with the man standing in front of her? “Oh, John, have you finally popped the question?” She squeezed his hands hopefully.

John looked disconcerted; was it because she’d guessed right or because she’d guessed wrong? She felt her smile fading as she studied his face. “John? Something’s wrong, what is it? Please don’t tell me you’ve broken it off with her…”

“No, nothing like that,” he hastened to assure her, gently guiding her to a chair and pressing her into it. He sat opposite her on the matching armchair, but continued to hold onto her hands as he very visibly struggled with whatever it was he wanted to tell her. “Mary and I are great,” he finally said. “Not quite ready for the marriage proposal, but I promise, when it does happen,” here he blushed and gave her a quick, bashful smile, “you’ll be one of the first to know. No,” he continued before she could press him for details, “this is something…something else. Good news, like I said, but not…not something easy to tell you.”

“Oh for God’s sake, John, I told you she’s made of sterner stuff than you seem to believe,” came an impatient, familiar, heart-stopping, unexpected ( _dead, Dear Lord, he’s dead, I’m hearing things_ ) voice from behind her.

oOo

John looked up at Sherlock in annoyance and dismay, his eyes darting back to Mrs. Hudson’s rigid, white-faced form as he snapped: “Really? You couldn’t just let me ease her into this the way you said you would?”

Sherlock strolled over to join them in the sitting area, taking a seat on the davenport and crossing his legs, the very picture of insouciance although his eyes were examining Mrs. Hudson’s silent form with a piercing intensity that gave lie to his casual pose. “Martha Hudson,” he said softly, “is a remarkable woman. She is certainly strong enough to recover from her understandable shock far more quickly – and with a great deal more resilience – than you are willing to give her credit for, as I told you earlier. Aren’t you, Mrs. Hudson?”

She blinked several times, a rapid series of blinks that could have been in simple reaction to his voice or an attempt to cover up for the onset of tears. John watched her carefully, noting that her breathing, although rapid and a bit uneven, wasn’t ragged enough for him to reach for the medical bag he’d hidden beneath the side table. Just in case. Of course, he should have known Sherlock would pull something like this; he should have just met her at the front door and done his best to prepare her as soon as she was safely inside the building. “Mrs. Hudson, are you all right? Can you say something, please?” he asked in his best bedside manner voice. He casually moved a finger up to her wrist, the better to gauge her pulse, and found it racing as he’d expected – but strong and steady, no sign that her heart had been adversely affected. 

Sod Sherlock for always being right. Martha Hudson had a strong heart and her pulse showed just how strong. Which was good, he reminded himself as he continued to study her for further signs of shock – although her hands had gone cold and clammy and her pupils dilated, she didn’t seem to be in need of any kind of stimulant or depressant to help regulate her body’s reactions. At least, not yet. He wasn’t going to leave her side until he knew for sure he wasn’t going to be calling for an ambulance.

Her eyes blinked, blinked again, then focused on his face. She smiled and removed her hands from his grasp, leaning forward to kiss him gently on the cheek before rising to her feet.

Sherlock rose with her, stood quietly and watched as she carefully skirted the low coffee table and stopped in front of him. He turned to face her, still watching, as she reached up with a trembling hand…

…and slapped him smartly across the face.

“Sherlock Holmes!” she shouted as he pressed his hand to his cheek and stared at her with an expression very much like shock on his normally impassive features. “How could you do such a thing, let everyone think you were dead for three years? Do you know how upset we all were, how hard it’s been for us?”

As soon as she fell silent he opened his mouth to respond, only to shut again as she burst into tears and pulled him to her for a fierce embrace. “Don’t you ever, ever do anything like that again!” she scolded through her sobs. John watched in approval as Sherlock slowly raised his arms and returned the embrace, going so far as to rest his cheek on top of her head. “I’m sure you had a very good reason – and yes, I would like very much to hear what it was – but first, I mean it, promise you’ll never do such a horrible thing again!”

She pulled back and looked at him with as stern an expression as she could manage, considering the tears still streaming down her face, and Sherlock nodded. She gave his arms a little shake, and he opened his mouth. “I promise,” he said, allowing her to pull him back into a sitting position, still holding on to him for dear life.

“Good,” she pronounced, then turned back to John, who couldn’t help the foolish grin he knew was spreading itself across his face as the reunion got back on track. “Tea would be lovely, John, please tell me you have a pot brewing.”

“Actually, I believe the good doctor was about to prescribe brandy,” Sherlock interceded with a bland expression that really wasn’t very good at hiding the upwards curl of his lips.

“Oh, brandy, that would be better, yes,” Mrs. Hudson agreed as she turned to face Sherlock again. “And after that, my dear, you’ll tell me everything, yes?”

“Of course,” he agreed, this time not bothering to hide the warmth in either his eyes or his voice.

While John busied himself with collecting three clean glasses and ferreting out the brandy from its hiding place in the back of one of the kitchen cabinets, Mrs. Hudson continued to study Sherlock. He got up once to retrieve a box of tissues from the washroom, and waited with what appeared to be actual patience as she blew her nose and wiped her eyes and fussed over her appearance (“ruined, just ruined for the day, mind you it’s in a good cause, but I’ll have to pop back downstairs and touch things up a bit later!”).

“You look a bit thin, dear,” she finally pronounced as her gaze turned critical. “And awfully pale. And what on Earth are you wearing? Are you in disguise, undercover, whatever the term is?”

He sat back and studied her as carefully as she had him. “I am within five pounds of my weight when I was forced to fake my death three years ago,” he finally said, somewhat tetchily. “I will admit to not having been in the sun much since I left, but I resent the implication that I haven’t been taking care of myself. I can assure you, Molly nags me incessantly about how much I eat and sleep…”

John sighed and shook his head as he reentered the sitting room in time to hear Sherlock’s verbal faux pas. “Still just dropping facts on her like stones,” he pronounced in aggravated tones before turning to face Mrs. Hudson, whose mouth had dropped open into an astonished “O”. “Molly Hooper helped Sherlock fake his death, but he says he doesn’t want to tell us how in case he needs to do it again in future. Yes, she’s been lying to us the entire time, but according to Sherlock,” here he turned to his flatmate with a distinct twinkle in his eyes, “we mustn’t be too hard on her when we see her next.”

“Which will be for dinner at Angelo’s at 6:00 tomorrow,” Sherlock interjected. “It was when I was originally going to reintroduce myself to you, Mrs. Hudson, but you arrived home a day earlier than we’d been led to expect you, and so…” He raised one shoulder in an eloquent shrug, completely disregarding the fact that he’d accidentally let slip Molly’s part in helping him hide his not-deadness. He must still be a bit off his game, John concluded with a silent chuckle. Serves him right; and good for Mrs. Hudson for that slap, it was certainly well deserved.

Mrs. Hudson accepted her glass of brandy from John, took a ladylike sip, and then a healthier swig as the others joined her. She set her glass down on the coffee table and turned once again to face Sherlock. “Very well, on with it, then,” she said, smoothing down her skirt and folding her hands in her lap. “I’m listening. What was so important that it required you be dead for three years?”

He told her everything he’d already told John, which was still annoyingly vague in places. When he admitted that he’d been forced to “kill” himself or watch as she, John and DI Lestrade were shot by snipers, she teared up again but kept silent as she reached out and squeezed his wrist in sympathy.

John couldn’t help but notice that he glossed over a great many details, not revealing very much of what he’d actually spent the last three years doing (besides, of course, _not being dead_ ) aside from a very vague “taking down Moriarty’s web of evil” statement. Since that wasn’t really what Mrs. Hudson was interested in hearing, however, he didn’t push for details, content to listen quietly and wait for her to pounce.

Which she did after he wrapped things up with: “And then my brother Mycroft stepped in to finish things up after I handed him the information he needed to do so. I came straight here after so John and I could, erm, hash things out, I believe is the phrase.”

Mrs. Hudson couldn’t have possibly missed the black eye he’d been sporting, but since she never once asked about it, John assumed she knew him for the source of that particular injury. 

“That’s all very nice dear, and I’m so sorry you had to go through all that,” she said, her tone warm and sympathetic but her eyes bright with curiosity. “However, what I really want to know is…”

“About Molly Hooper’s part in all of this,” Sherlock anticipated her with a sigh. “I was hoping you weren’t going to be as irritating about this as John was yesterday. However, since that seems to be too much to ask…” Here he launched into the same (non) explanation he’d given John: she wasn’t a target because Moriarty didn’t think she counted; her position at St. Bart’s was vital to his plans (no, he still refused to explain how they’d done it); and, most importantly, not only did he, Sherlock Holmes, trust her, but the truth was he’d always trusted her (well, that part was new!) and that, as the saying went, was that.

Mrs. Hudson looked about as satisfied with that explanation as John had been, and he settled back into his chair with a grin as he waited for her to start digging. Knowing her, she wouldn’t be nearly as likely to stop badgering Sherlock for details, especially if her nose for romance had caught the scent. Which, judging by her next question, it had: “So after Molly helped you fake your death – don’t worry, dear, I won’t hound the poor girl at dinner tomorrow or any time after that, I understand you needed someone to help you and why none of us would do – but after she got you out of St. Barts, where did you go? A safe house?” Then, with a shrewd look: “Or her flat? Were you that sick brother of hers from Cardiff, the one who came for a visit and ended up with a nasty stomach virus for almost a week after you ‘died’?”

Sherlock seemed unwillingly impressed, and John chortled his own glee; he’d forgotten about the sick brother – or rather, the “sick brother” – that had stayed with Molly starting a few days after Sherlock’s fall. The one who’d supposedly come to visit to help her through her own grieving and ended up needing to be nursed back to health by her. Which, at the time, seemed like a bit of a blessing; after all, it was so much easier to have someone else to look out for when your own troubles got too overwhelming.

Which was exactly why he’d ended up doing a stint in Médecins Sans Frontières for half a year after struggling for eighteen months to come to terms with Sherlock’s (supposed) death, on the recommendation of his therapist. He would have to remember to give her a call before the news of Sherlock’s return became public; although it would seem her advice about moving on and finding constructive ways of dealing with grief had been premature, they’d helped at the time and he was grateful.

Just as grateful as he was for his friend’s return. And for Mrs. Hudson’s remarkable ability to absorb the shock as well as she had…so far. He’d be sure to keep an unobtrusive eye on her, make sure she really was taking it as well as she seemed to be doing.

While his mind had been wandering, Sherlock had been admitting that, yes, he had been the “sick brother,” that he’d hidden out in Molly’s flat not only for that week but off and on over the past three years, whenever his journey lead him back to London.

Ah, good, Mrs. Hudson was prying even more out of Sherlock than John had hoped. He was extremely glad to have his friend back – although there’d been a bit of shouting and another near-fight that morning when it all really started to sink in – but this bit about Molly Hooper was just too good to let go – and Mary, after she’d gotten over her own shock when he visited her and filled her in on Sherlock’s miraculous return, had practically ordered him to find out more about this intriguing development. Was it possible Sherlock Holmes finally succumbing to his dread nemesis, sentiment? 

“So, the two of you became a bit closer during all this, I take it?” Mrs. Hudson was asking, her eyes innocent but fooling no one.

Least of all Sherlock, who rolled his own eyes and drawled: “Really, Mrs. Hudson, why don’t you just come out and ask me if I had sex with her?”

“Did you?” she asked promptly, while John choked a bit on his sip of brandy; he’d expected a denial, not a request for confirmation, and he was pretty sure, judging by Sherlock’s trapped expression, that his friend had thought his question would embarrass her into changing the subject. John’s estimation of their landlady went up another notch as she cornered Sherlock as neatly as he’d ever cornered a suspect. 

After a long moment, Sherlock finally responded with a muttered: “This is ridiculous!” 

He started to rise to his feet, but Mrs. Hudson’s hand was still on his wrist, and she tightened her grip just enough to let him know that, no, he wasn’t running away from this conversation. “Dear, it’s a simple question,” she admonished him. “And please don’t bother telling us it’s none of our business, not when we’ve just spent three years mourning your death. I understand you can’t tell us what happened when you brought down Jim Moriarty’s crime syndicate, that’s for the police and MI5 to deal with I’m sure, but really, dear, you do owe us something.” She leaned forward earnestly. “After all, it sounds like Molly Hooper was your only contact with home all this time, am I right?”

Sherlock nodded unwillingly. “She was,” he said. “She…kept me sane, kept me grounded. I owe her a great deal – most importantly, I owe her the right to her own privacy.” He arched an eyebrow. “I believe the term is ‘I don’t kiss and tell,’ isn’t it? Not,” he added hastily as a pair of matching grins bloomed on both friend’s faces, “that I’m admitting to kissing at all. Just asking, please. Respect her privacy, if you can’t respect mine.”

Mrs. Hudson gave John an arch look. “He didn’t say no,” she pointed out.

John grinned widely. “You’re right, he didn’t. Guess that’s as close to a ‘yes’ as we’re going to get.”

oOo

Sherlock was extremely annoyed with his flatmate and landlady. Why on Earth did they keep circling back to his relationship with Molly Hooper? Why did they insist on interpreting his desire to protect her – yes, her _feelings_ as well as her privacy – as a sign that said relationship had evolved into physical intimacy during the past three years?

He should have simply said no and been done with it; instead, he’d hesitated, allowed himself to equivocate, and why? For no good reason, he concluded sourly as Mrs. Hudson and John continued to giggle together like a couple of secondary school girls passing by the local football hero. He rose to his feet, leaving his untouched brandy on the table, and glared down at them from his full, imposing height. “If you two are finished dissecting my private life, I am going to New Scotland Yard. I have an appointment to meet with DI Lestrade. And yes, before you ask, he already knows that I am alive, having been informed by my dear brother Mycroft yesterday afternoon. I am to report to him for a debriefing in conjunction with MI5 and various other tedious government types. And no,” he added with a sneer, “I’m not having sex with him, either.”

On that note, he swept grabbed his coat and stalked toward the door. Pausing on the threshold, he turned and added, in a considerably softer tone, his eyes on Mrs. Hudson: “I am very sorry I put you through three years of mourning, Mrs. Hudson. And I promise, no matter what, it will never happen again.”


	3. Conversation Three: Sally Donovan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short but sweet. Sally still doesn't like Sherlock, no surprise there!

Sgt. Donovan looked Sherlock up and down in a decidedly unfriendly manner as he strode into DI Lestrade’s office. “So,” she finally said, voice and dark brown eyes both unfriendly as she met his gaze. “Still alive, freak?”

“Yes,” he replied in a clipped voice signifying his own distaste, his own eyes chips of blue ice in that long, narrow, arrogant face of his. “Still shagging a married man, Sergeant?”

She stiffened and her look of distaste morphed into a glare of utter hatred. “Too bad you couldn’t have stayed fucking dead.”

“Ah. So Anderson decided not to leave his wife for you after all. Why am I not surprised.”

He had the gall to look bored as he spoke, with his hands tucked into the pockets of his expensive coat as he lounged by the door. She opened her mouth to give him more than a piece of her mind – yeah, he’d been cleared of the kidnapping charges and of making up Jim Moriarty in order to cover his own crimes, but she still hated his smug, superior-than-thou guts, especially when he was making her look like a fool the way he was now – when a loud, throat clearing noise from behind her superior’s desk stopped her.

Instead, she sniffed and stalked out of the office, leaving him to his conversation with Greg, satisfying her anger’s need for an outlet by allowing the door to slam shut behind her.

She should have known even the Devil wouldn’t be willing to keep Sherlock. Bloody. Holmes.


	4. Conversation Four: Greg Lestrade

DI Gregory James Lestrade studied the man standing – strike that; _lounging_ – just inside the door to his office. The door Sergeant Sally Donovan had just slammed on her way out, so hard that the glass was still shivering in its frame. Sherlock, of course hadn’t even flinched, merely shot a smirk after her retreating form like he’d been expecting her to do something of the sort.

Sherlock Holmes. The man by the door. 

The dead man. 

The _former_ dead man. The man who’d thrown himself off the roof of St. Bart’s hospital after being “proven” a fake, after admitting to same. Under duress, as the world was about to discover.

Still, he was the man who’d nearly cost DI Lestrade his rank and position, who’d caused every single case he’d been involved with to be investigated for any sign of malfeasance or misconduct – none of which, thankfully, had been proven to be true, else said position really would be a thing of the past.

His marriage, however, always on shaky ground, had not survived the storm of controversy surrounding Sherlock’s “suicide,” so he decided to focus his resentment on that single, long-lasting negative impact now that the not-so-dead detective was here, in front of him. Before he could do more than open his mouth, however, Sherlock straightened his posture, strode forward, and stood behind the pair of chairs facing Lestrade’s desk. “May I?” he asked quietly.

Lestrade nodded, watching warily, waiting. Knowing any attempt he made to speak would be as smoothly circumvented as the attempt he’d just made. “I’m…sorry your marriage failed,” Sherlock said without preamble, as always reading something in Lestrade’s face and posture that gave away exactly what he was thinking.

“Yeah, me, too,” he said after a long moment during which the two men studied one another across the width of Lestrade’s desk.

At first look Sherlock was exactly the same. Same haughty expression, same cold blue eyes, same head of dark curls, even the same bloody jacket (expensive) and scarf (equally expensive). However, upon closer investigation, there were too many differences to safely catalog – dark circles under the eyes, a definite gauntness to his always-too-bloody-skinny-for-good-health form. And scars; several across the knuckles of both hands, one above his left eyebrow, another one just visible below his ear where the scarf had slipped down.

Sherlock knew he was being deduced, and allowed it without a single word, waiting for Lestrade to finish before speaking again. “I’m also sorry that your career suffered some… setbacks…whilst my reputation was still in tatters,” he finally said when it became clear Lestrade was waiting for him to do so. He inhaled sharply and the Detective Inspector knew the apologizing part of the conversation was over. “However, that being said, I am not sorry to have saved your life and the lives of John Watson and Martha Hudson,” he said crisply. “I presume you wished to meet with me in private in order for me to make my apologies before we join my dear brother Mycroft’s men and the investigators from MI5 in the upstairs conference room?”

Lestrade allowed a grin to spread across his face as he deliberately leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Nah, sorry, mate, but all that debriefing shite’s been cancelled. Your ‘dear brother Mycroft’s’ doing,” he added, secretly – well, not so secretly, screw that, he was positively gleeful about getting one over on the great Sherlock Holmes – pleased to know something the other man hadn’t been able to deduce. “They’ll take a detailed written statement whenever you’re ready to email it, and that’ll be that. Your name’s already been cleared, anything you did was under some secret government ‘license to kill’ clause, so as far as New Scotland Yard is concerned, you’re free to go back to your life – and free to act as a consultant whenever we need you and you’re feeling bored enough to help out.”

He watched with a great deal of satisfaction as Sherlock gaped at him; was this how the other man felt all the bloody time, smug and superior and _bet you didn’t see that one coming?_

If it was, then he couldn’t fault him for enjoying it the way he always did. He leaned forward before Sherlock could say anything, his tone turning serious as he laid one hand on the desk. “Missed you, mate,” he said quietly. “Glad you’re not dead. I know things were – I know it was bad, right before,” he added awkwardly, “but I want you to know, I didn’t doubt you, not really. Not as a friend. But, this bloody job…I had to do it, yeah? You know that?”

Sherlock nodded, once, sharply, then exhaled just as sharply. As he leaned his hands on the arms of the chair preparatory to leaving, however, Lestrade waved him back down. “Oh, no, just because the debriefing’s been cancelled doesn’t mean you get off that easy, mate. The least you owe me is your own personal version of whatever your official statement’s going to say. Off the record, of course,” he added with an easy grin. Knowing that this time, this one bloody time, Sherlock would feel obligated to stay and do as he’d been asked.

With an impatient huff, Sherlock did exactly that: eased his grip on the arms of the chair, crossed on leg over the other, and regarded Lestrade impatiently. “Wouldn’t you prefer the electronic copy to peruse at your leisure?” he asked, then answered himself with a dismissive wave of the arm. “Of course not. You expect my report to be dry, factual, whitewashed for government suitability. And, of course, you’d be right, since that is exactly what my ‘dear brother’ will receive. However,” he added, leaning forward and pinning Lestrade with his gaze, “what neither party will hear will be details as to how Dr. Hooper and I faked my death. As I told John yesterday, I prefer to keep such information private in the unlikely event I need to use it in future.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Yeah, I figured that. John texted me you’d be difficult on that particular subject.” Before Sherlock could do more than raise an irritated eyebrow that his flat mate and the DI had been communicating behind his back, Lestrade added: “So. Dr. Hooper helped you. How did that come about, exactly?”

Sherlock’s glare was exactly what Lestrade had been warned to expect, but really, how could the man refuse to answer questions about the most intriguing aspect of his resurrection – how he pulled it off in the first place – and not expect the second most astounding aspect of the incredible situation to become the center of attention? 

Sherlock’s glare simmered into a glower as he settled back into his seat, fingers tapping an annoyed rhythm against one arm of the chair, head resting on the other hand. “It came about because Molly Hooper was considered too inconsequential by Moriarty to be a target. Thus she was discounted, as he mistakenly believed I always discounted her. Besides,” he added, almost unwillingly, a sulky note entering his voice, “when I asked her, she said ‘yes.’”

Lestrade gave a disbelieving laugh. “As simple as that, eh? You asked, she said yes, and here we are, three years later, not dead, reputation restored, just like that?”

Sherlock nodded, still looking annoyed. Good. He shouldn’t be able to just settle back into his old life without some sort of adjustment period, same as the rest of them. “Just like that,” he agreed, biting off the words as if they left a sour taste in his mouth. “Wouldn’t you rather hear the details as to how I managed to bring down Moriarty’s criminal network?”

Of course he would, but Lestrade would rather bite his own tongue off rather than give Sherlock the satisfaction of bragging (no matter how justifiably) about himself right now. “Nah,” he replied, shooting Sherlock’s dismissive wave right back at him. “I’d rather hear how you and Molly managed to pull this all off in the first place. Barring that, I want to know how you kept her from spilling the beans for three whole years. Cos I know Molly, and she’s about as hard to read as a children’s primer. You don’t have to be a consulting detective to know how she feels or what she’s thinking, at least, not usually,” he admitted, letting his honest bewilderment show on his face. “That’s what’s really sticking in my craw, knowing that she kept your secret so well that none of us even suspected. How did that happen?”

“You mean, how did she turn into such an expert liar that even the great detective inspector and all his Scotland Yard minions were fooled?” was Sherlock’s sardonic rejoinder.

Lestrade shrugged, knowing he’d been insulted and really, not caring. Not at the moment. Get a few pints into him later, however, and who knew what would happen? But that was for later. Right now, he had a secret to ferret out, one that he’d have latched onto even without John Watson’s head’s up. Molly Hooper’s name had been rather dismissively mentioned in the briefing he’d received by Mycroft’s people, but they may as well have waved a red flag under his nose. The girl had been in love with Sherlock for so long that her “minimal involvement” had to mean more than the government types were saying.

More than Sherlock was saying as well. He waited, pretending patience, while Sherlock mulled over the best way to answer his question. At least, he assumed that was what the other man was doing as gave his best stone face and allowed his hands to dangle casually over the arms of the chair. “She was motivated,” he finally replied. “She didn’t want to let me down. I knew she wouldn’t; therefore, she didn’t.”

Lestrade snorted. “What a crock of shit,” he pronounced sourly. “She didn’t want to disappoint you…so she didn’t? You used her feelings for you, guilted her into helping you, manipulated her…”

“I did nothing of the sort!” Sherlock practically shouted, hands suddenly clenched into fists. Ah, so John had been right about that as well; Sherlock was definitely harboring some sort of feelings for the girl – sorry, no, woman, doctor, pathologist, but not simply a girl, not after shielding Sherlock’s secret for three. Bloody. Years. 

Lestrade watched as Sherlock Holmes visibly took hold of himself, eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion as he said in disgusted tones: “John put you up to this. I should have realized sooner.” He rose to his feet. “This discussion is over, DI Lestrade,” he pronounced, his voice cold and formal. “When you’re ready to talk to me about the part of this situation that truly matters – the means by which I personally dismantled a brilliant, twisted master criminal’s extremely complex criminal network, I will be _happy_ ,” he sneered the word, “to oblige you. Until then, I would only request that you not subject Dr. Hooper to the same sort of inappropriate questioning as you have me.”

Then he turned on his heels and strode out of the office, not quite slamming the door behind him but giving the clear impression that he would have done so if it wasn’t for the fact that he’d be imitating Sally Donovan by doing so.

And Greg Lestrade burst into belly-busting laughter as he did so. God, he’d missed that crazy git. Whatever he’d spent the past three years doing, exactly – and yes, he did want to know and would wangle as many details out of Sherlock as he could, some other day – he was just glad that Molly Hooper had come out of it so well.

She’d never been a target to Moriarty, but she’d been one to Sherlock plenty of times in the past, so it was only fair that he ended up defending her against all comers.

He couldn’t wait to call John and tell him all the juicy details of the meeting – including, he thought gleefully, the exchange of words between Sherlock and Sally Donovan. That girl had a way with words, he couldn’t deny that.


	5. Conversation Five: Mycroft Holmes

As Sherlock left New Scotland Yard, he was not one bit surprised to find a sleek black car waiting for him. With his brother’s PA, Anthea ( _one day he should really try to ferret out her_ real _name, first_ and _last_ ), standing by the rear passenger door, mobile in hand, texting away madly as usual.

Without looking at him, she reached down and pulled the door open, waiting until he entered before closing it behind him and taking her own seat next to the driver.

The car sped off as Sherlock glowered at his brother, seated next to him in the back of the car, hands resting comfortably on the handle of his omnipresent umbrella ( _such a ridiculous affectation, the man never went anywhere without it and yet would never expose himself to any weather that would require it_ ). “I was informed that the debriefing was to be delivered via email.”

Mycroft inclined his head slightly. His gaze never left the glass dividing the two brothers from the driver and Anthea as he spoke. “It is. This is regarding a separate matter.”

Sherlock couldn’t help tensing in sudden anticipation. “A case?” A case would be good, would be a distraction, something to help him narrow his focus, take his mind off his recent past ( _especially the rather disturbing trend of his most recent conversations with John and Mrs. H and Lestrade_ ) and get him back to concentrating on the future. Good, very good…

“No,” Mycroft interrupted his racing thoughts. “Not a case.”

“Not a case, not my debriefing…what, then?” He sounded bored and impatient at the same time, could hear it in his own voice and knew his brother could hear it as well. Good. Clearly there was nothing wrong, no family emergency involving Mummy or Mycroft would have been much tenser, not nearly so relaxed. When it came to Mummy, especially her health, neither of the Holmes men bothered attempts at obfuscation with one another.

“Molly Hooper,” Mycroft said simply.

Sherlock turned and glared at his brother. “Dear God, not you, too, Mycroft!”

oOo

Disappointing. Extremely disappointing, Sherlock’s reaction to Molly Hooper’s name. Mycroft heaved an interior sigh, although his expression remained impassive in the face of his younger brother’s irritation. He’d thought Sherlock knew better; hadn’t he warned him after the Adler woman’s “death” three years ago? _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

And yet, here they were again, only this time the situation wasn’t nearly as complex – or, at the same time, as fundamentally simple – as it had been with the Adler woman.

This time, it involved a woman with a heart, with feelings – oh, not just her feelings for Sherlock, but her feelings in general. Molly Hooper was a gentle, caring woman. Yes, she’d managed to keep Sherlock’s secret from the rest of the world with very little behind-the-scenes management required on his own part, but other than that, rather unexpected, bit of creative truth-telling, Molly Hooper was an open book to all and sundry. One didn’t need to be a Holmes to see through her.

Generally. Current circumstances aside.

He, personally, would never have even considered asking for her assistance in such an elaborate scheme as his brother had embarked upon three years prior. Which, of course, in hindsight, made her perfect for the part. No one would believe that Molly Hooper could keep such a secret. Yes, they’d believe she’d be willing to do anything for Sherlock, but to be able to follow through – no.

Which, again, made her the ideal candidate.

Which still didn’t explain her ambiguous relationship with his brother. Ambiguous on Sherlock’s part, of course; her own emotions were painfully obvious to even the most casual observer.

And Sherlock was anything but a casual observer. Which meant he knew exactly how she felt about him. Which made his next question absolutely necessary. “Are you quite sure you know what you’re doing, Sherlock?”

oOo

He huffed out an annoyed breath ( _not_ a sigh) and continued to glare at his meddlesome, interfering git of an older brother. He was disappointed; he hadn’t expected that Mycroft, like every other person he’d had a private (well, semi-private in the case of Mrs. Hudson) conversation with since his return, would bring the topic round to Molly Hooper and the part she’d played in helping him fake his death. And in keeping that secret for three entire years. Why did they all insist on acting as if she were incapable of such deception, when clearly they’d misjudged her abilities – her loyalty, her discretion, the depth of her feelings for him – so badly?

Mycroft, at least, could be forgiven for not understanding such things, since he barely comprehended them himself (well, perhaps _forgiven_ was too strong a term), but it was certainly annoying that he’d joined the others in the chorus of “what is the exact nature of your relationship with Molly Hooper”.

Because, of course, despite the deliberate vagueness of Mycroft’s last question, that was exactly what he was asking. What he was cautioning his younger brother about.

“Take me there.”

Ah, he’d actually managed to startle an expression onto his brother’s face with that abrupt request. Good. His lips quirked with a satisfied smile before settling back into a thin, annoyed line. “You heard me, Mycroft. Take me to Dr. Hooper’s flat. You know the way.”

Then he turned his head toward the window and refused to say another word until his brother capitulated.


	6. Conversation Six: Molly Hooper (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The "did they or didn't they" question is finally answered.

Molly Hooper was home. She even happened to be looking out her sitting room window, idly watching the traffic go by as she stroked her cat, Toby’s, long, black fur. That was the only reason the knock on her door a scant minute after she watched a sleek, black government-looking vehicle drop off a passenger (a passenger she’d recognize anywhere, under any conditions, one that always set her heart to pounding and caught the breath in her throat) didn’t startle her.

She’d already risen from her seat and headed for the door, opening it before Sherlock had finished knocking. Surprising him, for a change, judging by the look on his face. “Hi,” she said simply, opening the door wider and allowing him to enter her flat.

Until two days ago, he hadn’t set foot in her flat for almost two years, when his quest to take down Moriarty’s criminal syndicate had taken him out of the UK and off to various parts of Europe, Africa, Asia and, startlingly enough, North America – but not the United States. Who would have expected the man to have a stranglehold on the _Canadian_ underworld, for Heaven’s sake? Then he’d shown up, scaring the daylights out of her as her grandmother would have put it (God rest her soul) by just appearing in her bedroom in the middle of the night to announce that the job was finally finished, bar one irritating loose thread that he was going to take care of in less than a week.

After announcing his presence, he’d turned and headed for her spare room, no doubt to spend the rest of the night smoking out the window and staring at the street below. Certainly not to sleep, since she’d come to discover how rare it was for him to sleep under normal circumstances, let alone in the middle of the biggest case of his career.

To stop her thoughts from wandering, she blurted out the first thing that popped into her head: “Was that, um, your brother’s car? The one that dropped you off?”

She cringed inwardly at the awkward (and completely unnecessary) question she’d just asked; Sherlock’s black mood had “Mycroft” stamped all over it – although, she conceded, it could also have something to do with the black eye he was sporting.

_That_ injury had “John Watson” written all over it, but she asked anyway: “Did John – he punched you?”

“Yes to both questions, Molly,” Sherlock replied, stopping just short of a snarl as he stormed past her and threw himself onto her comfortable leather sofa. She closed the door with a silent sigh, squared her shoulders, then turned to face him, leaning against the wall and studying him.

He was out of sorts, to put it mildly. Didn’t take a brilliant consulting detective to deduce that much. Being with Mycroft did that to him. John punching him probably didn’t help…although he’d predicted it would happen when he left her flat yesterday afternoon to reveal his not-deadness to his best mate. The one who’d struggled for so long to come to grips with Sherlock being dead…although Mycroft, she suspected, had known all along his brother was alive…

“Yes, again, Molly,” Sherlock snapped, jarring her out of the reverie into which she’d fallen.

She started and smacked her hand against the doorknob. “Ow!” she yelped, shaking her hand and offering him her version of a glare – nowhere near as blistering as he could manage, but still. It had taken her almost a year to be able to glare at him at all, and progress was progress. “Don’t _do_ that!”

“What, deduce you?” he countered with a smirk. “Why not? It’s clear you’ve been studying my bruised eye – yes, John punched me, exactly as I predicted he would – and yes, Mycroft knew I was alive the entire time, although he wisely kept himself out of things until I was ready to reveal myself.”

“Oh, OK, so John knows and Mycroft knows…did you talk to Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade? How did your debriefing go?” she asked in a rush, feeling her heart increase its speed as it began to sink in that it really, truly was over. No more Sherlock hiding out in her flat, coming and going at random times of the night and day. No more criminal network to take down – well, bar the “loose thread” of Sebastian Moran he’d mentioned two days ago.  
No more lying to the people closest to him, who’d perforce become close to her as well. 

No more being Sherlock’s only connection to the life he’d been forced to abandon three years ago.

She’d known all this two days ago, so why was it suddenly causing her throat to constrict, her eyes to blur, her heart to hammer unsteadily in her chest?

_Because, you ninny, until he started actually settling himself back into that life, it wasn’t real,_ some interior voice – her conscience, no doubt – scolded her. 

She forced herself to move, to head for the kitchen as Sherlock answered her questions, saying something about the debriefing being handled via email – Mycroft’s doing, no question on that – and that yes, he’d spoken to the three people she’d mentioned.

She blinked away her tears and turned on the tap, filling the kettle in order to keep herself occupied ( _and to distract herself from the loathsome, detestable, selfish, self-pity that was trying to overtake her_ ). “Um, that’s…that’s good,” she called over her shoulder, keeping her face resolutely focused on the kettle, the water filling it, and the need to _not cry_.

Just because Sherlock was getting his own life back didn’t mean things would automatically go back to the way they’d been before. His coming here was proof of that. Wasn’t it?

Yes, yes it was, she told herself firmly, finally getting her emotions under control, surreptitiously wiping her eyes when the cupboard door was open enough to hide her from his view. He’d been speaking the entire time she’d been struggling with (wallowing in) her emotions, giving precise summaries of his conversations with John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and when she finally started really listening to his words, she received the distinct impression he was keeping something to himself.

When she felt she could speak without giving her (temporary) emotional turmoil away ( _as if she could keep anything from Sherlock; who did she think she was kidding?_ ), she voiced that impression, doing her best to keep it from sounding like an accusation. “What aren’t you telling me?”

She finally turned to face him, to see him studiously examining his nails, as if they were far more important than any simple-minded conversation she could offer. Which, she had to admit, at times was probably true. But not this time. He’d come here for a reason, and she suspected it had a great deal to do with whatever it was he wasn’t telling her. She made her demand again, this time allowing her concern to show in her voice instead of trying (and failing, most likely) to keep it to herself.

Sherlock disdained what he labeled “sentiment,” but he’d learned to tolerate it in her, if only because she was terminally incapable of holding any of her emotions completely at bay.

When he remained stubbornly silent, she tried a different tact: “I suppose they all wanted to know how you did it.” Of course he’d told them why, which was really the most important part of the explanation, but if she knew anything, it was human nature – and human nature was curious. Nobody watched the magician’s act without wondering how he cut the lady in half.

After a long moment of continued silence, during which Molly decided he wasn’t going to answer her, he turned his eyes away from his fingernails and met her gaze with a half-shrug and a scowl. “Of course they did. But as we agreed, I told them nothing.”

“Oh, well, that’s good, then,” Molly said, turning back to the tea kettle, busying herself with cups and saucers and strainer as an excuse to remove herself from his immediate attention, not wanting him to start deducing her. _Coward!_ part of her mind snapped at her. _Yup!_ she snapped right back. _Got it in one._

When Sherlock spoke again, she jumped, not because of the content of his words but because he’d moved silently across the parlor and was right behind her. Speaking into her ear. “Once they realized I wasn’t going to answer that particular question, they seemed far more interested in ascertaining if the two of us had entered into a sexual relationship.”

Molly swallowed nervously, gazing down at his hands where they rested on either side of her body. Holding her in place, keeping her from moving away from his disturbing (to her nerves) nearness. “Why – why would they think something like that?” she finally managed to half-whisper, realizing in despair that her nervous stutter, the one only Sherlock brought out in her and that she’d believed completely cured after spending three years as the only contact between him and his old life, had returned.

“I don’t know, Molly,” he replied, his voice a husky purr as his lips descended closer to her ear, so close his breath tickled and shivered her skin into goose bumps. “Perhaps because we did?”


	7. Conversation Six: Molly Hooper (Part 2)

Sherlock watched with (not quite detached) interest as Molly flushed bright red. “Oh, you, you remember that?” she stuttered, hands clutching the countertop. Really, it was a good thing she wasn’t holding one of the china cups she’d brought down from the cupboard when she was trying to hide her (overly) emotional reaction to her ( _mistaken_ ) belief that his return to the land of the living ( _disgustingly poetic way to refer to his return, but somehow she brought that side of him out more than anyone_ ) meant she would once again be relegated to the background of said life.

“Of course I remember it,” he said, remaining close to her. It was an interesting experiment, to see if she would try and duck out of his not-quite embrace or stay where she was; besides, he liked standing this close to her, just as he liked categorizing her reactions to his closeness.

She either believed he’d deleted their assignation on the night of his leap from the roof of St. Bart’s, or thought that the drugs she’d given him that night had interfered with his memory. True, a great deal remained hazy after he’d had his unfortunate encounter with gravity, but the events that had occurred in her flat that evening…those he remembered quite clearly…

_Her hands, gently urging his drug-addled self up the stairs and through her door. His body collapsing bonelessly on her bright floral sofa (he recalled saying something biting about her taste, extremely ungrateful of him but the glaring colors hurt to look at – thank God she’d replaced that horror before he was forced to leave the country). Molly seating herself carefully next to him, ignoring his words, undoing his shirt in order to peek at his injured ribs and wincing at the sight of the cuts and bruises decorating his body._

_Her eyes meeting his, brimming with tears, himself on the verge of another biting remark regarding the weakness of sentiment…and then finding himself unable to speak as his gaze zeroed in on her lips. “Not too small after all,” he’d murmured before pulling her close, ignoring the flash of pain as he held her firmly against his chest and lowered his head to hers for an urgent kiss._

_If she’d tried to pull back he hadn’t noticed, too lost in the sudden sensation of_ need, _overwhelming him, drowning his thoughts, overruling his mind as his body responded to the adrenaline, the drugs, her sympathetic and unquestioning presence…all of those, none of those?_

He’d never bothered to analyze why it happened, either then or later. At the time, of course, he’d been too caught up in the feel of Molly Hooper in his arms, her hands tangling in his hair, her mouth opening beneath his as she returned and deepened the kiss, the feel of his first non-dream induced erection in years pressing against her abdomen. Later, he’d _refused_ to analyze it, content to simply replay the memory whenever his situation and its apparent hopelessness threatened to overwhelm him.

They’d had sex, right there on her sofa, barely bothering to unclothe themselves more than the immediate need called for. Then he’d passed out (but not until ascertaining that they’d both achieved orgasm; he prided himself on doing things thoroughly and leaving Molly only partially satisfied would never do) and awoken alone, trousers refastened, shirt neatly buttoned, all physical signs of their assignation tidied up and cleared away and Molly sleeping (or rather, _pretending_ to sleep) alone in her small bed.

She hadn’t mentioned their sexual liaison the next day and neither had he, too caught up in internet research and physical recovery to allow it more than a passing moment’s thought when she arose the next morning. She’d insisted on checking his bandages and nagged him to take his medication and eat something. He’d tolerated the distraction but had quickly returned to the prep work he needed to do in order to pave the way for several new identities.

He’d remained in her flat for three more days before declaring himself recovered enough to slip away. The sex had quite honestly been removed from the forefront of his mind and relegated to her room in his mind palace ( _it had started off as a rather small room, practically a closet, and now it rivaled the one assigned to John Watson_ ). He’d been so focused on his more pressing activities that he’d not thought to tell her that yes, he remembered it and no, he didn’t regret it.

Not good, as John would no doubt say. Not good at all.

Well, now she knew the truth; the question was, what would she want to do about it? He found himself uncharacteristically uncertain as to what her reaction would be. Would she chastise him for leaving her to believe, for two years, that their actions that night had been of no consequence to him, or would she be relieved that he hadn’t deleted it after all?

Although he’d been irritated by the fixation John and the others had on his relationship with Molly, perhaps now was the time to review said relationship and see if she’d rather he _had_ deleted their time together – or if she would, perhaps, prefer to…how would John put it? _Have another go at it._

oOo

Molly felt dizzy. Sherlock remembered their lovemaking – their frenzied and urgent but nevertheless extremely satisfying lovemaking on her old sofa. The one he hated, the one she’d gotten rid of because it reminded her of something she’d convinced herself he either regretted or had utterly forgotten five minutes after it ended.

She didn’t just feel dizzy, she felt weak-kneed and flustered and her mind was spinning…and Sherlock remained right behind her, hands still resting lightly on the countertop on either side of her body, not quite trapping her (because if she wanted to leave he would let her, she might not be able to predict his behavior all the time but that much she knew to be true) but telling her non-verbally that he’d rather she remained right where she was.

Did she want to push those hands aside and leave? After all, he’d just sprung this on her; why hadn’t he said something when he first returned? He’d come back in the middle of the night and awoken her, not with a kiss or anything more than reassurances that he was home for good, _mission accomplished and mind if I smoke and pace in your spare room for a few hours before I go talk to Mycroft and John, Molly?_

Not exactly the declarations of a returning lover. So why bring it up now? Because the others wanted to know? Was that all this was, just him somehow acting out in response to what sounded like very pointed questions? Because if it was…

She took a deep breath and turned, very carefully, to face him, pressing against him with her fingertips on his chest until he obediently took three steps back – but no further. “I thought you didn’t, that the drugs or…”

“I remember,” he said, cutting her off, but for once she was grateful, else she’d have continued to stutter and splutter and make a complete hash of what she was trying to say. “I’ve always remembered, and…” His gaze turned sideways, as if he were embarrassed ( _impossible, right?_ ) or perhaps simply groping for the right words ( _almost as impossible_ )… “treasured those memories.”

She couldn’t help the huff of disbelief that escaped her lips as he finally looked at her again. Just as she couldn’t help the flush of heat that covered her face or the nervous clenching of her fingers against her arms where she’d pulled them tightly across her chest. “Treasured them? Treasured them so much you couldn’t be bothered to, to tell me you remembered? To let me know if it meant anything or was just the adrenaline and relief of not actually being dead?!?”

Her voice was rising as her agitation grew, and his steady gaze turned shifty. If he was any other man she’d say he looked guilty, but since it was Sherlock she had no idea if that was the case or just her misinterpretation. “You just, you just left me!” she went on when he remained silent, unable to hold the words in for a second longer, trying to ignore the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. “You never said a word, just left without letting me know…I mean, yes, you said I counted and you trusted me, but that was…it wasn’t the same, after, and I just needed to know…I still do, I need to know! If you remembered all this time, why didn’t you ever say anything to me? Even if it was just, I dunno, letting me down easily, it would have been better than thinking you’d completely forgotten!”

As she lowered her head in a futile attempt to stop the stupid tears from falling, to muffle the sound of the sob in her throat, she felt him move forward once again, acutely aware of him as always.

Then his arms were around her, pulling her close, and his lips were on the top of her head, pressing a kiss there before moving down to whisper into her ear: “I’m sorry, Molly. I’m not…I’m not good at this type of thing, at relationships, I’m complete rubbish at romance, John would have been able to steer me straight, he’s actually rather good at these sorts of situations. I was distracted but I should have realized sooner how hurt you might have been…”

The sound of Sherlock Holmes ( _Sherlock Holmes!_ ) stuttering and apologizing very much like a flustered Molly Hooper effectively shut down her tears. She raised her head to gaze at him in astonishment – had she done that to him, had her words – inarticulate and broken off and not clear even to her as she spoke them – had they affected him this way? Had she managed to ruffle his calm – and was it because he actually _cared_?

She voiced that last question aloud, and he pulled back, once again the cool, calm, collected (maddening, endearing) man she’d known for so many years, eyeing her with something approaching – but not quite reaching – disdain as he snapped: “Yes, Molly, I care. Why else would I warn the others not to press you too hard about your assistance in my ‘death’ two years ago? Why else would I have made love to you that night? It certainly wasn’t simply in reaction to the drugs or the adrenaline in my system.”

She blinked, not sure how to respond to this abrupt about-face ( _same old Sherlock, always keeping her off balance – he’d called it ‘making love’ and not ‘having sex’, that was important, so very, very important_ ). He sounded like he was miffed at her for needing to be treated gently; or was she simply not understanding what he was saying? ( _Not the first time, probably not the last time, she would feel that way._ )

His expression softened and he reached out to cradle her face in his hands, gently wiping her tears away with the pads of his thumbs as he spoke, quietly but intensely. “Molly Hooper, I have handled this situation abominably. Yes, I remember making love to you that night. Yes, I’ve thought about it a great many times over the past two years. Yes, I should have said something much, much sooner. I know you love me, I’ve had ample evidence of that presented to me over the years and have chosen to ignore or exploit it in the past. However, since you helped me fake my death I’ve come to truly understand the depths of your feelings for me. And to contemplate my own for you.”

“Wh – which are, what, exactly?” she found the courage to ask, unable to raise her voice above a whisper, just as she was unable to tear her gaze away from his, or slow her rapidly beating heart or the slow rise of hope in her soul.

He leaned forward and kissed her. Slowly, thoroughly, and with a great deal of passion. When the kiss ended and he pulled back, he offered a lazy grin as he asked: “Really, Molly? Must I actually say the words?”

She felt her lips stretching in a matching grin as the hope bloomed and transformed into joy. “No, I guess you don’t,” she conceded. “I guess actions speak louder than words, and I guess…I guess I can forgive you for not saying something sooner.” Somewhere she found the courage to reach out and smack him lightly in the arm. “As long as you never do it again, you git!”

He pulled her into his embrace again, and she felt his muffled laughter as he rested his head on top of hers. “If I do, I expect you to call me out on it. John’s preferred words are ‘Not good, Sherlock,’ if you require an example to follow.”

Then he kissed her again and she allowed herself to melt into his embrace. They’d known each other for five years, had somehow, inexplicably become something like friends, shared one night of passion and now…who knew? Suddenly the future was bright with possibilities…

“Damn.”

Molly’s effervescent mood plummeted at Sherlock’s annoyed exclamation. “What?” she asked, biting her lip in concern. Surely he wasn’t regretting what had just passed between them already…

Sherlock was looking at his (expensive, all of his stuff was so bloody _expensive_ ) watch and frowning, although he still held her in his arms. “We’re going to be late.”

“Late for what?” she asked as he took her by the hand and began tugging her impatiently toward the – bedroom?!? Surely he didn’t mean…

Apparently not. He shoved her in the direction of her bedroom as he explained, speaking with rapid impatience: “Dinner at Angelo’s with Lestrade, John and Mrs. Hudson. We have to be there in less than half an hour. Find something decent to wear and let’s get this over with.”

She dug in her heels, turning to glare at him. “Why didn’t you tell me – I mean, why didn’t you ask me about going to dinner, Sherlock? What if I’m not ready to face them yet, did you even think of that?”

He cast a critical eye over her. “You’ll be fine,” he pronounced. “Just don’t let them pressure you into giving anything away about our relationship you don’t want to. It’s none of their business.”

Joy crashed and burned and lay a smoking wreck at her feet. “Right,” she said dully, finally turning to do as he asked (because she _always_ did as he asked, even when he broke her heart). “None of their business. I understand.”

As she started to walk away, he caught her wrist and pulled her back to him, frowning. “I did it again,” he said, sounding regretful. He sighed. “You see why I need help with this sort of thing? I didn’t mean to imply that you’re some kind of…dirty little secret, that I don’t _want_ the others to know about us. I only meant to express my annoyance with the three of them for their prurient interest in the nature of our relationship. Tell them what you like, just don’t feel obligated to… _mollify_ their curiosity.”

There was a gleam of humor in his eyes as he finished speaking (surely he hadn’t sunk so low as to use that particular word as a _pun_?), and Molly realized she’d overreacted – well, it was going to happen, she may as well get used to it. Sherlock had just declared them to be in a relationship, but before she could press him for clarification he held up his hand. “We’re in a relationship, Molly, a romantic relationship if you feel the need to give it a label. An _exclusive_ romantic relationship, to further define it. If,” he added, suddenly sounding uncertain, “that suits you?”

She nodded, not bothering to try and stop the tears this time – happy tears cured wrinkles, her grandmother had once counseled her, so never stop them falling – as she pulled herself up on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Right, got it. You weren’t kidding when you said you were rubbish at this so I have to make allowances. And I promise to use John’s words whenever necessary,” she added with a grin before finishing in a rush: “And I’ll go get changed while you call a cab, and we’ll have a lovely dinner with the others and I won’t let them badger me into telling them anything I don’t want to share.”

With a radiant smile she turned and walked into her bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind her. Even though she really, really, _really_ wanted him to join her, they’d never make dinner on time if he did – besides which, he’d not said anything about starting up a sexual relationship again…

As if he’d read her mind ( _how could he possibly deduce her thoughts from behind a closed door!?_ ) he called out: “Yes, Molly, a committed exclusive relationship includes sex. I look forward to returning here after dinner and resuming our interrupted activities, if you’re agreeable.”

Molly giggled quietly to herself as she hurried out of her work clothes and into her nice, navy blue dress. A relationship with Sherlock Holmes (committed, exclusive, _sexual_ ) was going to be anything but boring.

Just like dinner tonight.


End file.
